Chapter 36
Malta, several months later
Riva hadn’t needed time to think about Addison’s offer and accepted it the day after he brought it up.
She had put her work for Otto on pause but expected to resume at a later stage.
Now the lovely little apartment had become her solace and the work she was doing with Addison her respite.
All the time she’d been staying in Bobby’s apartment she had dreaded he might turn up with his American girl, despite his uncle’s warning to keep away.
She had buried the grief over her lost baby; it hurt too much.
And now she was living in her little upside-down house, doing her best not to dwell on Bobby’s betrayal.
She still missed him though, still felt the crushing grief, the inconsolable loss, the memories, the anger.
Never again would she wake up next to him and yet he was not dead, only lost to her.
She dressed carefully in a navy cotton dress and slipped into white high heels, wanting to make a good impression on Addison’s publisher, Gerard Macmillan.
She wasn’t sure what to do about her hair.
The dye was fading rapidly, and she had decided to go back to her natural bright red, but you could still see a dividing line.
She found a blue and red scarf among her things and tied it turban-style round her head, grimaced as she looked in the mirror, added some red lipstick, then rubbed it off again.
She wanted to look serious, not like a cabaret dancer from Strait Street.
Later, as she walked into Addison’s study after knocking on the door that divided his apartment from hers, he looked up at once and smiled.
‘Will I do?’ she asked, still feeling dubious.
‘Darling girl, you always look beautiful. Coffee?’
She nodded.
He rose and went to call the butler who brought them both coffee a few minutes later.
‘We don’t have long, because I need you to pick Gerard up.’
‘Oh God. Really?’
‘Think you can do it?’
She tipped her head and grinned at him.
A little later she set off in Addison’s beautiful car, petrified she might crash it, but determined to prove she could be trusted.
Every day he’d taken her out for lessons along the quiet lanes in the countryside around Mdina and she had regularly driven to the nearby town of Rabat to buy groceries.
This was the first time she had driven to Valletta harbour.
As she neared the city, she grew more uneasy.
The harbour was as hectic as ever, but she spotted Mr Macmillan immediately.
A tall, pale, lean man of about thirty-five, he was dressed in a cream linen suit with a white shirt and blue tie.
He wore a light panama hat, plus round, thin-framed black spectacles and was shading his eyes from the glare and blinking in what Riva thought must be surprise.
She recalled how she had felt about the bustle and noise when she’d first arrived and hurried forward to greet him.
After she introduced herself, trying to look more in control than she felt, he shook her hand vigorously and they walked to the car where he hauled in his tan-coloured leather case.
‘N … nice motor,’ he said, and she noted the very slight stammer in his voice.
‘Addison’s.’
‘And have you been driving long?’
‘Not long,’ she said breezily, hoping not to reveal how tense she was feeling, not so much because of the driving now, but because this man had come to evaluate Addison’s work, her work too, and would be with them for a fortnight.
Together with Addison she had spent hours going through the endless brass-handled drawers of three floor-to-ceiling mahogany chests in which he kept his writing.
‘I had them made especially,’ he’d said. ‘The chests.’
She’d sorted through his journals and poetry, line drawings too, and had been overwhelmed by how moving his words often were, especially when they concerned his late wife.
She’d frequently felt tears forming and was protective about the work, hoping this Macmillan man wasn’t going to pull it all apart.
The trouble was there was far too much material for one memoir, and they needed the publisher’s help.
On the journey back along the bumpy country roads they exchanged a few words about London and the economic situation.
She recited a list of the invaders and settlers Malta had endured, Phoenician, Arabic, Italian, French and British, soon arriving at the point where the umbrella pines on either side over the road pointed the way to Mdina.
‘Here we are, Mr Macmillan,’ she said a few minutes later as they drove through the massive entrance gate into the ancient city.
‘Oh, please c … call me Gerard. Gerry actually, if you don’t mind.’
She parked and after they got out, Gerard looked around him. ‘Well, I’m stunned. I had no idea it would be so beautiful. I knew it would be impressive but this …’
Gerry, as he kept on insisting she call him, turned out to be a mild-mannered man with an unexpected grin which lit up his light blue eyes. He was polite and diplomatic and as the hours went by, he gently steered Addison in the direction in which he wanted the book to go.
‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘we need to settle on the story.’
‘Story,’ Addison stiffly replied. ‘This is my life, not a novel.’
‘All the same, your readers will want a story. We want a story too and I suppose it’s which story you choose to tell that’s the tricky question.’
Addison huffed and puffed. ‘Not sure I’m with you, old man.’
‘Well, for example, is it a love story?’
Addison muttered something Riva didn’t quite hear but felt sure he must have been cursing.
‘Or is it a story about finding one’s feet as an artist. Or is it more about the shows you’ve mounted all over the world?’
Addison looked uncertain and after Gerry had gone for a walk to give them time alone to talk, Addison asked her what she thought.
‘Truth?’
‘Truth.’
‘I think the most affecting story is the love story. People will want to know how you found the love of your life, how you lost her, and how you survived to become the most generous, kind-hearted man I have ever known.’
‘Oh my dear,’ he said, and she could see he had tears in his eyes.
And thus it was decided, although Addison didn’t give in for another two days, during which time he persuaded Riva to show Gerry the island of Malta.
But before going further afield she led him around the city of Mdina.
‘Its medieval name was Notabile: the noble city,’ she said as he contemplated the silent streets. ‘Mdina’s noble families who live in these palaces are descendants of the Norman, Sicilian and Spanish overlords who built it.’
‘It’s extraordinary,’ he said. ‘Timeless.’
‘It’s not all beauty. There are dungeons beneath at least one of the palaces.’
‘Sounds intriguing.’
‘Addison has books about them. What they were used for and so on. Torture chambers mainly, from what I’ve read. During the Roman era, Malta was a slave colony, but the tortures went on throughout time, even during the French Occupation.’
While Gerry marvelled, the streets reminded Riva of Bobby. She felt as if she might turn around and see him smiling at her, her heart lifting and then lurching when she understood it would not happen. Could not happen. If she ever saw him here, he would not be smiling, and neither would she.
‘Shall we get out of the city now?’ she suggested. ‘I can show you St Paul’s Cathedral another time. You can’t miss its red-and-white striped dome.’
She took Gerry to H-ag˙ar Qim, the prehistoric temple complex situated on a ridge on the southern edge of the island, where they walked around for half an hour. After that they drove to the village of Qrendi, where they found a coffee shop and then went further south to the caves.
‘You can see something of them from high up on the cliff,’ she said. ‘We just need to walk a little. Though the best way is to take a boat out.’
She didn’t mention that Bobby had hired a boat and shown her caves and the amazing blue sea, and she fell silent.
‘Anything wrong?’ Gerry asked, after a while.
She swallowed and shook her head.
They walked on and looked down from the cliffs, Gerry blinking behind his glasses.
‘Maybe tomorrow we can go to the Dingli cliffs,’ she said. ‘They’re my favourite.’
‘I’m hoping that tomorrow we can get back to work.’
‘Of course.’
‘I didn’t mean to sound brusque.’ He paused. ‘Look, I can see something is wrong. Is there anything I can do? I’m a good listener.’
In fact, that evening turned out to be the time Riva did talk. After a late supper, Addison rose to his feet and yawned. ‘I’m going to call it a night, but feel free to take a bottle of wine and this charming young man to your apartment, Riva. I will see you both in the morning.’
‘You don’t have to come with me,’ Riva said, once Addison had gone. ‘But I’d better go. It’s just Addison’s way of saying he wants some peace and the apartment to himself. Sifting through his memories of his wife must be emotionally exhausting.’
‘I’d like to come with you,’ Gerry said, glancing at his leather-strapped wristwatch. ‘If you don’t mind. It’s only ten.’
After that she could hardly say no, so nodded but found Addison had locked the study door to her apartment. He always kept the key with him, so they would have to go down the stairs and into her apartment from the hall and the little Moroccan garden.
She led Gerry there, but when she unlocked her door, she immediately saw she’d left the bedroom door open and the lamp on.
Apart from the waste of electricity, it plainly looked like an invitation.
He took hold of her hand very carefully and studied her eyes, as if working out what she expected of him.
When he smiled, she knew immediately and nodded.
He bent to kiss her gently and afterwards she tried to speak. He put a finger to her lips then removed the scarf from her hair. She’d worn a different one every day.
‘I’ve been wondering about your hair. Why do you hide these gorgeous curls?’ he said, running his fingers through them.
‘I’m growing the black colour out.’
‘It’s almost gone. Your red hair is glorious.’ After a moment he added, ‘Riva, Addison put me in the picture about his nephew, Robert.’
She suddenly felt vulnerable, more unsure than she had been.
‘Only if you want to,’ he said, glancing at the bed. ‘No strings.’
Instantly she knew this had been Addison’s doing. He wanted her to get over Bobby and thought this kind, gentle man might help her. Addison had known all along he was going to go with the love story.
She began to laugh. At Addison’s boldness, at his audacity, at his wisdom.
Gerry smiled. ‘What?’
‘Did Addison ask you to make love to me?’
He shook his head. ‘No. For Christ’s sake. No. He only said you might need a bit of cheering up.’
‘Oh my God. He’s such a wily old man.’
‘So?’
She laughed again. ‘What can I say but welcome to my boudoir.’
The sex was not the same as it had been with Bobby.
It was sensitive, caring, and more careful.
There was none of the wild animalistic passion and it was not driven by a deep-rooted desire to possess or the ravenous longing to become one being.
But it was nice. Really nice. He clearly knew what he was doing and left her in no danger of becoming pregnant.
‘Tell me about you,’ she said, intrigued.
‘Well, Yvonne, my wife, she’s French. Taught me everything I know.’
‘You’re married?’
‘In name only. She didn’t like England, headed back to the sunlit lands of Provence after the war, taking our son with her. Her family are perfumiers and own lavender fields near Greoux-les-Bains in Provence, but my work … it’s in London.’
‘You must miss them.’
‘I miss my son.’
There was a short silence.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘I just need to say I don’t want any commitment. I don’t want a new man in my life. But I’m glad this happened. I didn’t know how much I missed being held.’
‘We all need to be held sometimes,’ he said rather sadly.
She swallowed hard, deliberating before she spoke again. ‘I’ve never told anyone this, not even Addison, but I was pregnant with Bobby’s child when he left. I was so upset and shocked by his disappearance I drank too much, and I lost the baby.’
He stroked her hand. ‘You poor girl.’
She blinked rapidly to hold back the tears spiking her eyelids. ‘It still hurts. I think it may have been my fault, you see. The miscarriage. I can’t stop blaming myself.’
He shook his head. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t your fault. Yvonne had one too and we read that a miscarriage tends to happen when there’s something not quite right with the foetus.’
‘If you’re right, that does make me feel a bit better.’
‘And it should. Don’t carry the weight of all that guilt. These things happen sometimes.’
She didn’t say but had noticed that his slight stammer had completely disappeared.
‘Look, if you ever feel like a change, I might be able to get you work in publishing. In London, of course, as a trainee. It can be enormous fun.’
He was so easy to be with, great to talk to and the way he gave her his complete attention meant she really felt heard.
He wanted nothing from her except her presence and she felt the same way about him.
And she began to see herself through his eyes.
There would never be a romance but what if she were to take him up on his offer of finding her some work in London?